“Nils,” he greets me cheerfully, swaying toward me for a kiss. “Cold,” he adds about my lips, still grinning happily at me. I nod. It’s freezing today.
Gently, I take what I can now see are reusable shopping totes from his hands, freeing them up so he can lock his frontdoor. I get another kiss for my trouble, and once the door is taken care of, he moves close enough to rest his forearms on my shoulders, fingers teasing the back of my neck.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? Come for another day of fun in the haunted house?”
All morning, I’d practiced the words. There had been an itch under my skin from the moment I woke up in an empty bed—a need to see Oliver and hear his voice. I’d missed him like it hadn’t been less than twenty-four hours since I’d last been with him. So, I made the decision to stop by and see him. I practiced what I wanted to say.I wish you had stayed over last night. I missed you this morning. I always miss you when you’re not around.I swallow, thinking through the words once more and reminding myself to go slow. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much I practice or prepare. Sometimes, it’s hard no matter what.
Oliver waits, humming so softly I can barely hear it, even though he’s close enough for me to count a handful of freckles on his nose. He’s always so patient, so attuned to every signal I unknowingly put out. If people were half as kind as Oliver, world peace might actually be an attainable goal.
“I wish you-you-you had stayed over last night.”Slower, I remind myself, ignoring the way my body immediately feels floaty with nerves after I stumble. “I missed you this morning. I always miss you-you.”
I cut off before I finish everything I’d planned to say, feeling like I adequately made the point I was trying to make. And indeed, Oliver’s expression shows he heard me loud and clear, stutter or no, and that smile alone makes it worth the effort totry for me. I shift the shopping totes so they’re not between us as Oliver uses the position of his arms to pull me in for another kiss.
“I can’t think of a single thing to say. What a time for words to fail me,” he murmurs. I smile, exhaling out of my nose in a soft huff of laughter, the cold winter air fogged between us. “Stay over tonight? And today? I was going to go grocery shopping and grab a coffee in town, but I don’t have to. I have plenty of groceries. I actually am only going because I have a couple specific recipes in mind that, naturally, require none of the ingredients I already have in the house.”
I chuckle again, finding it hard to form my mouth into anything but a smile. I don’t enjoy grocery shopping. In fact, it’s one of my least favorite activities. I usually buy the exact same thing every time I go, so there is no need to linger and fewer chances for people to try and talk to me. Mara, a young teenager who works the registers on the weekends, has a father and two brothers who are lobstermen. Every time I go in, she tries her best to engage in a lively conversation with me, happily scanning my groceries while telling me about the price of lobster. It’s silly to be stressed by the thought of talking to a teenager, let alone one who is sweet and trying to be polite. But even the thought of having a long conversation with my own mother stresses me out. Add in the public setting of the Salty Grocer, and Mara at her cash register with a line forming behind me, everyone eavesdropping, and there is very little chance of me being able to say a damn thing at all.
But I’m exhausted by the constant strain of worrying. I don’twant to miss out on spending time with Oliver. And I, unlike him, actually do need groceries, since I’ve put it off and put it off until only the barest of foodstuffs remain.
“I’ll come?” I ask.
“Yeah?” I nod. “Yeah! Perfect. Grocery shopping is so fun. Sometimes I buy random stuff just for a kick and then try to build a recipe around it. I’m hoping I can get some clams today. We’ll see. Also, cinnamon. I’m out of cinnamon. How does that even happen? Cinnamon is a staple.”
I pinch my lips together, following him to his SUV and depositing his mess of bags onto the back seat. Cinnamon is not a staple for me, that’s for sure. In fact, I think the only person who has ever used mine is Oliver himself.
He chats as I sit mostly quietly in the passenger seat of his car, heat blasting from the air vents and both our seat warmers on. My truck doesn’t even have that feature, and I’d never admit it to my dad, but I can see why people enjoy it. My back is toasty warm by the time Oliver parks in front of Triton’s Brew, reminding me of the other thing he’d mentioned he’d wanted to do this morning.
I hold the door for him as we walk inside, the café warm and inviting after the bitter chill outdoors. Oliver pulls off his beanie, hair a staticky, silver-blond halo around his face. He slips off his gloves, barely waiting until my own are in my pockets before sliding his fingers between mine.
“Hi, Oliver!”
“Hello, Miss Braxton,” Oliver replies, easily matching the cheer of the teenager behind the counter. She beams at him, yetanother person unable to help but love him.
“Hi, Nils!” she adds, voice a little less sure but smile fixed firmly in place. I’ve never once come in here.
“Morning.” I nod and smile a greeting before glancing up at the menu. Through the pass-thru window, I see Jean, another face from my childhood, working on the grill amid clouds of steam.
“Want to try something new today?” Braxton asks Oliver, already grabbing a cup and clicking open a Sharpie, holding it aloft. Oliver hums, thinking through his answer. I smile to myself, charmed by the easy comradery between them.
“Yeah, I think so. Surprise me. Make it sweet—you know I don’t get nearly enough sugar.” Braxton giggles, scratching away at the cup in her hands. “And for Nils, perhaps a winter wonderland mocha, please.”
I relax, tension unspooling just as easily as that. I don’t enjoy frequenting places like this because I don’t like ordering. Too many people staring at you, waiting and listening while you decide what you want and then ask for it. I should have guessed I wouldn’t need to explain any of this to Oliver. He already knows and is there to gently ease the way.
Order placed, we step off to the side and hover near the far wall to wait. I grab Oliver’s hand again, having had to release him to pay, and give his palm a little squeeze.
“So, I’m craving a clam bake. I have some of what I need at home, but am missing the clams, obviously, as well as the shrimp and the sausage. I also need to get more corn. Oh, and some seasonings. I’ve got an idea kicking around in my head.Other than that, just the usual stuff. How do you feel about soup for dinner this week? Like, a lot of soup. A different soup every day of the week.”
Smiling, I nod. Soup is fine with me. So is the hidden subtext in that offer—the understanding that we will be having dinner together every evening this week. I squeeze his hand again.
Braxton calls Oliver back up to the counter, handing over our cups and waving us out the door. I take a sip of the concoction Oliver ordered for me and shoot him a surprised look. He pinches his lips together in amusement and walks around the hood of the car to the driver’s side. This type of coffee is something my dad would call a frou-frou drink. Sweet and with more sugar in it than actual coffee. I take another sip. It’s delicious.
“Good,” I tell Oliver, lifting the cup as he clicks his seat belt into place. His eyes shine as he grins.
“I know. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been a pretty integral part of creating some of those menu items in there.” I huff a laugh, raising my eyebrows when Oliver meets my eyes. “I’m serious, Nils! The Luck of the Irish and Fish Food wouldn’t exist without me! Honestly, the next menu item will probably be named after me, you just watch.”
The parking lot of the Salty Grocer isn’t too busy, and I find myself relaxing into the practice of tailing Oliver up and down the aisles once we’re inside. He doesn’t once cease talking, and for every item I grab, he’s tossing six more into his own cart. A handful of times, he plucks something off the shelf and putsit in my cart, not his own, as though he knows exactly what’s missing from my pantry and precisely what items to fill it with. Something warm and immense blooms in my chest each time, and I have to keep my fingers curled firmly around the handle of the cart to keep myself from reaching for him.
We’re standing in front of the fresh produce, Oliver sifting through the tomatoes, when someone moves into my periphery. Automatically, I shuffle closer to Oliver, trying to give them more space.
